


Well Isn't This a Delight

by orange_8_hands



Series: Nails and Teeth [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Gen, Hell, Hell Fic, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Rape/Non-con References, Torture, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:06:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_8_hands/pseuds/orange_8_hands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your body was built for this (there are no bodies in Hell)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well Isn't This a Delight

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger Warning** : This is a Hell fic, so torture including rape
> 
>  **Note** : As usual works as a stand-alone.

It turns out you have a shitty imagination.  
  
Hell starts off with you spread eagle, in the clothes you were wearing when you died, chained into air and surrounded by screams. Even though you tell yourself not to, you are already (still?) screaming for Sammy, for help, for quarter to be given you are a soldier not a martyr.  
  
Hell doesn't use training wheels. "Well aren't you fugly," you tell Alastair, and he crawls under your skin and wrecks your body like a train crash, brings you back good as new and does it again. He keeps hitting rewind and there's no disconnect between you and your pain, no pause, he just licks your tears and blood and pleas and says, "Mmmm, you're going to do this one day, pay attention" and starts again.  
  
By a month's end the only reason you know days from other days is because the cycle only starts when he slaps the knife into your hand (mostly it's a hand, it depends on the day) and asks if you'd like to make a deal.  
  
"Already made one, fucker," and that's only the first time he flays your tongue to mush inside your mouth.  
  
Mostly your human and Alastair rapes every orifice you have and then creates new ones. He likes to take your fingers and smash them into splinters, makes you pick up the pieces with your teeth and lap your blood off the knife he uses to cut off your tits and asks if you're feeling fine when he jams his fist into your pussy. He'll come to you like it's the cast of your life (maybe this is what they mean by seeing your memories before the end); Sammy uses your ribs as toothpicks and Daddy burns your heart while it's still in your chest and Bobby crushes your hip bones with the weight of his body and those are just the fan favorites, and you figure you're doing good, doing pretty damn good because when you're begging for it to stop it's always Alastair's name you're calling to. Physical torture is water cooler knowledge. It's Hell, and that's a favorite.  
  
Alastair explains it once while jamming rocks down your throat. Mostly he likes to leave your throat alone, likes to hear all the ways you plead, but sometimes a no pisses him off and it's a bad day. He keeps holding the rocks up and licking them before he stuffs them into your intestine. He's making art, he explained.  
  
"Now we can both agree if I was topside you would be long gone by now from the pain," he says, stopping to add pebbles into your mouth to hear them clink down. You're floating somewhere between his voice and watching the metal contraption crank your mouth open wider, straining your eyes like seeing is believing and well, he hasn't plucked them out yet so why not. "But still, a body, a few cuts and bruises. You think that's all we can do down here? It's Hell, Little Dee, and right now I'm just playing in your sandbox. But I think, mmm, I think I'm going to be bringing you to mine real soon."  
  
Hell is bodies on a rack. Hell, actually, is this thing, this black smoke speeding through your pores and into the soul of you, digging holes into you until you turn insubstantial, turn to wisp like them. Souls are heavy things, and yours is getting lighter by the day.  
  
"I'm having fun," he says, and nothing of this is a metaphor. There are pieces of you cracking off and coating the floor below you. Alastair turns you into water and makes you boil. He skims your mind of shadows and let's them ravage you. He eats flesh off you like a dog tears into a bone, and instead of blood and organs you're metal rusting, atoms rearranging into shapes he designs and then putting you through claws and spokes and taunt wire. It's not physical so much as your memories being cracked open and given poison, you're dying inside out and outside in and just dying, except instead of silence or peace or nonexistence it's just Alastair, looming over you, asking you a simple question.  
  
"I don't want to trick you, Little Dee. I don't want you to say yes just because I confused you into it. I'm not going to build up a little questioning rhythm and sneak it past you. I want you to be perfectly aware of my offer. Just take up my knife, and class is dismissed."  
  
You say no like it's a test you studied for all your life. You say no like it's the only answer.  
  
Well, you do, at least. You did. He's holding out his hand and asking you to join him, and you're guessing now, you think you have the right conclusion but it's all a little unclear, because he's plucking off your skin with something that may have been tweezers and talking about how good it feels and you, you've always been just a primal, base creature, haven't you? Food, sex, hunting, but you can't do those things here, well there's no food or sex here, no matter what he jams inside you, and Alastair keeps saying, "Little Dee you'd be so good at this" and you, you've never been much good at anything, but you think he may be right, you've always been trainable, hunting things, killing things, the family motto, and Alastair's taught you so much more.  
  
"We're going to do this forever," he promises, caressing your hair like it's the only thing you can count on, him and his knives and sloshing through your blood to reach the root of you.  
  
He's got his hands in your stomach and is squeezing organs like he's looking for a prize. Then again he could have hidden gold in there, what the fuck do you know. "Hold this," he tells you, and hands you your heart. You aren't living a metaphor but he sure does like his symbols.  
  
"You're such a good girl, Little Dee." He hands you your liver and considering you only have two fingers on your hand you're doing a pretty good job not dropping them. "Now listen carefully and do what I say," and you help him harvest the rest of you, inside out and outside in and dying really shouldn't remind you nothing's changed.  
  
"So, what do you think I should do next? I'm always open to constructive criticism."  
  
You tell him to whip you until you're open wounds, then pour salt directly onto the nerves. It's easier to tell him something painful, really painful, than not.  
  
"Okay then, hold still," and the whip is mostly lashes of razor blades and the salt is sulfur and it feels, it's starting to feel just a little soothing when he guides your hand over your own cuts and helps you pour, keeps the waterfall steady in the shaking mess of your limbs.  
  
"You're such a good girl, Little Dee," he says, and rewards you by sewing you up with barbed wire.  
  
"Now, what do you say?"


End file.
